


Over Magnolias

by inklet



Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Arguing, Committed Relationship, Consensual Sex, Desperation, Hand Jobs, Happy Ending, Insecurity, Jealousy, M/M, Makeup Sex, One Shot, Praise Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-14
Updated: 2016-07-14
Packaged: 2018-07-23 15:44:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7469499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inklet/pseuds/inklet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, the toughest people need the most reassurance. It's just not always as easy to see.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Over Magnolias

You aren't completely sure what attracts you to the streets of Hancock's pride and joy anymore. It's just as filthy and desolate as any other corner of the Commonwealth, you realize, and the company isn't significantly less worthy of suspicion. Chances of spontaneous mugging remain promising.  
  
It isn't rare for you to spend a free evening at The Third Rail, however, sitting among the sparse circles of disfigured nobodies and having couple drinks.  
  
Magnolia never hurts the idea. She's sharp, beautiful and gritty; consistently quick to match your wit, undeniably pleasant company when your hand ghosts at the small of her back against the bar. She likes you. You like her, you think, as inconsequential as your visits end up being. Still, valued.  
  
It's become increasingly apparent that your companion doesn't feel the same. As the present night bled languid into day and glasses built up on the surface of the bar, your low, exchanged murmurs were interrupted by the sharp clack of MacCready's glass being slammed down unceremoniously.  
  
"Piss," you're pretty sure he excused himself with, but it was hardly coherent enough to understand. Magnolia had stifled a smile with her hand.  
  
You watch him go, momentarily puzzled, but a tug to your collar brings you back to Magnolia's hazy eyes. "Just as charming as I remember," she remarks. "Suppose we do get carried away when we're together. Naughty us." Her twangy accent makes her purr, pale elbow resting on the counter.  
  
Just like that, she's dragged you back in. Your conversation lasts a while longer before you manage to slip outside, dazed from the alcohol, eyes narrowing at the waking light.  
  
"Finally," you hear, turning enough to see the sniper resting against the wall. His bathroom trip never was a convincing cover for his sudden need to escape the room.  
  
He's all tension. His arms are crossed, squeezing himself, and you read the language of his body impressively quickly for your slight inebriation.  
  
"I didn't know you were the jealous type," you say, perhaps against your better judgement, and his lips twitch downwards. He never did like being scrutinized, you gathered. It seemed to make him feel vulnerable. He slides a hand briskly down the sleeve of his jacket to whisk off stray dust.

"I'm not."

"Magnolia just teases." He doesn't want you to keep talking, but you do, following the man's brisk steps as he starts to walk toward the exit.

He shoots you a dry, unconvinced look and you meet it earnestly. "Really? Shit, could have fooled me. Seemed sorta like you had some reason to favor The Third Rail. Kind of consistently out of our way, isn't it? That crappy dive in Goodneighbor, of all places?" He pauses expectantly, but you're silent. "And you still drag me halfway across the same fucking cheek of Wasteland just to sit and drool over someone else's sex appeal."

You squint, head tilting. "I didn't know it bothered you."

"It didn't used to," he snaps, exasperated, sliding his fingers across his forehead to gather residual patience as he halts. "You know, for such a sharpshooter, you really can miss a point."  
  
"Rob," you say, stepping toward him, but you come in contact with his forearm as he lazily bends an elbow to block your attempt. As much as it bothers you, you know to back off, so you saunter a reluctant step backwards and open your mouth to try reassuring him verbally.  
  
"Forget it," he growls, speeding up over the bulk of the walk to leave you examining his back.  
  
It isn't until you've arrived at Sanctuary Hills that it seems he's cooled down. He's reached his second phase of anxiety, an isolated period, polishing his rifle on one of the humble beds you'd laid out. Marcy eyes you as you around the corner to check on him, but you know how to brush her off.  
  
He's too absorbed in the furious clicking of his rough scrubbing that you scare him with an embrace from behind. "Hey," you greet him warmly.  
  
He swallows tightly as you kiss the stubble near his neck, head tilting to the side, and you can't tell if he's exposing his neck to you on purpose or just trying to dip out of the contact.  
  
"What do you want?" It's soft, undemanding. Although the atmosphere understands you had an argument of sorts, it isn't asking for more heat.  
  
You hum in return, nibbling his lobe and feeling him breathe deeply in your arms. "To admire you." As he starts to unwind, you rub his shoulders, feel the warm angularity of his lithe body. He isn't very muscular, but so capable, so handsomely deft. He's so powerful, even at his fingertips.  
  
He snorts, and although he wants it to come across condescendingly, there's a shyness to it that he can't mask. "Shut up," he murmurs, and then he's turning his head to steal a kiss on your lips.  
  
It isn't long before you're stripping each other, needy, mouths familiar with how to handle their hunger. There's seldom a moment where your faces part, sharing warm air between you, but the eloquence the dance stutters with the memory of something unresolved. It remains a distraction.  
  
In the brief break of a kiss, his brows start to furrow. "Sure you don't need me in a red dress to get it up, lover boy? Should warn you, can't sing for shit."  
  
His blunt fingernails dig into your shoulder as your fingers wrap around his erection, thumb tracing circles over his frenum. It quiets him nicely, but you still bite his neck to keep him in line.  
  
You love how he holds onto you for dear life. His fingers squeeze and release your shoulders rhythmically, helping you gauge an appropriate speed, and the hitching of his breath is loud in your ear as you proceed to kiss along his prominent collarbone. He smells a lot like sweat.  
  
"So handsome," you find yourself saying. He squirms and you aren't quite sure he buys the compliment, but even so, you're speaking honestly. He just huffs raggedly into your shoulder, blunt fingertips seeking purchase. "I'm so fucking lucky. Just look at you, so good, my perfect, rugged guy."  
  
He whines somewhere deep in his throat, shocking you both. Like the cruel bastard you are, you pause and make it painfully hard to ignore.  
  
"Uh," he starts.  
  
It does nothing but inspire you; send a hot, determined flare up your spine so it pops in your brain. It's rare to find spots of his underbelly, so when you do, you tend to try and abuse them. You can feel him brace himself, fully aware of how you function, and it makes you start to smile haughtily.  
  
"I'm so, so in love with you," you continue, free hand framing the side of his face as your hand pumps at his cock steadily. "I love you. I love you."  
  
He reaches an embarrassingly quick release, clutching you, sobbing pleasure into your shoulder while he spurts sparse, eager jets of seed. It dies down into a slew of messy kisses, but your hand doesn't quit until his hips reflexively begin to dart away from the sharp pinpricks of overexposure.  
  
He is spent. You know that he'd move to wrap his warm, rough hand around your shaft and finish you off in the endearingly clumsy way he does, but the visuals are too much. You tug yourself to completion over him and he watches greedily in his afterglow, eyes full of lingering arousal.  
  
It's only when you both regain your breath that you realize how much passion you'd entwined with together. It's always sobering to get off with him.  
  
Swiping a crumpled sheet across the ejaculate sitting on his own thigh, he's almost sheepish. "Well," he starts, humbled, seeming to pause and question the origin of the sheet. "That was... weird, but cathartic." If it had been anyone else's, he figures that it'd be best not to return it now.  
  
You kiss him hard. "Sorry," you say belatedly, and by now, he's just about ready to wave it off. He's surprisingly good at dropping grudges on you.  
  
He still lingers playfully, seemingly buzzed on the open affection. "You love me that much?" He is grinning in the most knowing way, but you humor him.  
  
"Yes."  
  
He scoffs, failing to conceal the excitement that inspired. His elbow rests on his knee as it bends to his chest. "No hesitation, huh? Alright. Why?"  
  
"Because you're the best I can do," you joke tiredly, reaching up to pinch his chin between your thumb and forefinger. He grunts that you suck.  
  
You rest on your back beside him, spine popping pleasantly a few times as it backs in the rare alignment of a shabby mattress. His arms snake around you this time, and your lips seek out his forehead for one more solid smooch before dropping on the musty pillow behind your head.  
  
You're almost asleep when he mumbles against the back of your neck. "So, you're positive about the trashy red dress thing? I might pull it off."  
  
Swallowing a chuckle, you elbow him gently in the stomach. He amuses himself way too much, you note, just as he squeezes you apologetically.


End file.
